Be sure to call out loudly as you fall.

Hospital corridors lead yellowly past gaggles of gap toothed x-ray machines they put us in like tongues. Doors with governors, fire doors, doors with rubber buffers, crash plates, silencers, rooms of rumours, news by elimination, guesswork, or by subtle shifting to the door or just more queues. We’ll treat them like a playground, we’ll go the pretty way past the Gorgons, the selfish Gods and their special mistakes. I’ll use your wheelchair to support my aching endoskeletal excess, you’ll push mine as diseases pick at our almighty humour. No-one will get our idiolect, our idiot laughing, the fairy lights, the stereo on the wheelchair. Every indignity – we’ll mock it. Under the taut linen snow we’ll undo good works, mix drugs, careless of good opinions still. Only alone will it be unbearable. Or watching you in pain. Otherwise I’ll look forward to those zinc-lined doors that we bang our trolleys into. Though I’m so afraid that when we drop through it will be like falling overboard from a great liner in the dark. I must be near. You must be sure to call out loudly as you fall. I must dive over, throw myself out the airlock door to have a chance of finding your other in whatever darkness may follow us and this and all.